Free Young Turk by Moris Farhi Page B

child’s play. But when it came to getting in and out of Greece, he dissuaded us from approaching the old-timers. Since Germany’s invasion of the Balkans, these veterans had abandoned their legendary braggadocio. They had even stopped smuggling. These swastika-Huns, they told everybody, were not like the Germans who had fought in the Great War; they were rabid dogs, just like their Führer.
    However, the new generation, the
delikanlι
– those with ‘crazy blood’, to use that graphic Turkish expression – were itching to prove their mettle; they were particularly keen to match wits with the ‘master race’. And none more so than Marko, Tomaso’s mother’s kid brother, not yet twenty-five, but already extolled as a Sinbad.
    The exchange of passports did turn out to be child’s play. Tomaso, pretending that he had undertaken a job – his first – for a Greek friend, sought advice from his father on how to arrange the exchange. Neptune, proud of the boy’s initiative, supervised the transaction himself. In the true tradition of the fixer, he asked no questions. But he made sure to turn a profit of seventy-five liras.
    Tomaso then introduced us to Marko.
    Even today, Marko is imprinted on my mind as the manliest man I’ve ever met: a blend of film star, athlete and Olympian god with the thick, perfectly groomed regulation moustache of a Casanova; serene as if he had perfected the art of being a loner, yet a man always living at the peak of his spirits. We fell under his spell immediately. Even Naim, who at first perceived him as puzzlingly ingenuous, ended up mesmerized by his irrepressible confidence. But then, Marko had every reason to be confident. Since embarking on his career, he had undertaken all sorts of perilous assignments and had accomplished every one with panache, an unprecedented achievement in a very precarious profession. Moreover, he had so souped up his boat, the
Yasemin
, that he could outrun any patrol craft in the Aegean.
    Marko readily agreed to help us. But he would not hire out his boat. He pointed out that we not only knew nothing about the vagaries of the Aegean Sea, but also were totally unfamiliar with the Thracian coastline. If we were chased by Turkish or German patrol boats, we would not be able to give them the slip and would either get captured or blown out of the sea.
    There was only one way we could succeed: he would smuggle us in and out of Greece personally. He was an experienced sailor who knew the region like the back of his hand. He could put us ashore very close to Salonica, for instance at Acte, the easternmost promontory of the three-tongued Khalkhidiki peninsula where the monasteries of Mount Athos were situated. In fact, operating near the monasteries would be wise; in case of mishaps, the monks could be expected to provide us with food and shelter. Last but not least, he, Marko, was an irrepressible romantic who believed that saving people was a sacred duty; consequently, he would do the job for a pittance, say, a month’s supply of raki.
    His evaluation made good sense; his enthusiasm lifted our spirits. We could finally leave the realm of ‘if only’ and enter the world of action. So we agreed.
    We set the date for Sunday 6 September. We would return, we calculated, a week later, on the thirteenth.

    ‘Accounts made at home never tally in the market,’ say the Turks. True enough. In no time at all, everything went wrong.
    Our request to go on a week’s camping with the boy scouts elicited little enthusiasm from our fathers. Naim and Can’s, desperately trying to keep their businesses afloat, needed their sons for odd jobs and refused them permission outright. My father, stuck in Ankara and loath to leave my mother alone with her depression, insisted that I stay by her side. Only Bilâl’s parents acquiesced – with indecent haste, according to Bilâl. Their marriage, as everybody could see, had turned sour; they welcomed the opportunity to give their son a